


The R. Correspondence

by noeon (noe)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Edinburgh, M/M, Museums, Mystery, Wizarding World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2431196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noe/pseuds/noeon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While working on the Bagshot papers, Draco makes an important discovery for British Wizarding History. Now if only Harry can keep him alive long enough to enjoy it.</p><p><b>Career Choices:</b> Harry: Private Security Consultant; Draco: Manuscript Expert</p>
            </blockquote>





	The R. Correspondence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ICMezzo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ICMezzo/gifts).



> For [Prompt # 17](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1NnIZtnyWEqbQHgi3U6N1CwbznCTkDeZGWJqgEw6KRrQ/).
> 
> Dearest IC Mezzo, I was very taken with your prompt: "Draco can read in 17 languages but can't understand Harry's handwriting. Harry can cast 17 spells wordlessly but can't figure out how the hell Draco has Charmed him.  
> Scenario: Draco is a translator of Very Important (he thinks) Ancient Wizarding Texts. Harry is a hot mess. Also, he's Draco's intern after a career change. Now if only Draco can interpret those looks Harry is giving him…"
> 
> Although I've taken a bit of creative license, I've tried very hard to stay true to the original sense of your prompt. Many, many thanks to my beta, f.

"Malfoy."

A few dust motes swirled lazily in the late September air as Draco refocused his magnifying spell on the subscript of the water damaged parchment, trying to make out the date. Was that a seven or a one? The month was clearly April from comparison with other examples of Fraxinus Farquarson's hand.

"Malfoy."

Draco knew the abbreviation that came before the date was the standard one that Farquarson used for Hogwarts - his own humourous Latin rendering: PV for porci verrucae. He could almost make out the blurred numbers. He just wanted to be sure of the sequence of this letter with the others, and the order wasn't entirely clear from content alone. There was something he wasn't seeing in the available letters, but perhaps the dates could help.

" _Malfoy._ "

With an irritated sigh, Draco laid down his wand. For a few moments, he breathed to clear his thoughts and calm his vexation. Then he rolled his shoulders, surprised to find them stiffer than he thought. How long had he been sitting here?

He pointedly did not look at his security detail. Bartholmey was probably going to tell him close up shop for the night, and really, he just needed a bit more time. He couldn't really explain how annoying interruptions were when he was reading, even if Bartholmey was always careful not to bother Draco more than he had to.

Draco passed a hand over his brow, smoothing the frown lines. Something caught at the back of his mind as he resurfaced into the present day from the letters. The name. His name. Bartholemy wasn't ordinarily this insistent. Also, he always used the honorific "Doctor" before Draco's surname. 

Casually, Draco curled his fingers around the base of his wand. He looked up then at the dark-haired figure towering over him, a bit shorter than Bartholemy but broader in the shoulders. He blinked, then sighed. He knew there was something familiar about the voice.

"Potter?"

At first glance, Draco thought he must have been hallucinating, as there would be no way that Harry Potter could be standing in the small, dusty reading room in the attic of Jaffray and Culpeper: Fine Magical Art Auctioneers & Valuers.

The familiar figure nodded. "Yes. And you're well overdue for the evening signout. It's already six o'clock."

Potter clearly knew the protocols and seemed at ease with the situation. Draco caught himself before he became too alarmed. He'd been working on the R. correspondence for a few weeks, and, to be frank, Potter's yet-to-be-explained presence at the auction house wasn't the strangest occurrence so far in his research.

Tamping down further questions, Draco gathered up his reading things and tidied the work surface, laying the soft parchment leaves back in the protective leather-bound case. He brushed the creases from his trousers as Potter joined him to seal the binding spell on the case. Together, they placed it the spell-shielded safebox in the wall and touched their wands to the lock, which sealed with soft click.

It was only as they exited the room to the narrow wooden stairs, Potter holding the worn green door for him, that Draco allowed himself to wonder what had happened that required replacing his usual guard with Potter. At the slight bow in the wall, before the head of the stairs, Draco braced himself against the iron side railing. Potter was close behind him. Draco held a cloak over his arm and his wand ready, wondering if he should stun first and ask questions later or whether that was an overreaction to the circumstances.

"Please don't try anything up here, Malfoy," the voice behind him said with what might have been gentleness. "I'm happy to tell you what I can, but maybe we should talk somewhere a bit less dangerous."

Draco relaxed his shoulders and tucked his wand away, shrugging off his suspicion for the moment. He walked through the main floors, signing his name in the ledger at the night porter's desk and exiting into the cold, grey evening air.

Edinburgh was darker than the South at this point, the equinox already two weeks past. Something like homesickness welled up in Draco's chest in the grey evening air: the knowledge that he was further from London and his own bed than he'd like. 

Potter stayed close to Draco as they walked through the cobbled alley to the broad street beyond. Draco's hotel was around the corner from Jaffrey and Culpeper, and Potter seemed to know the way as they passed silently through the sparse early evening foot traffic into Colewort Street. 

Only when they passed the front desk and reached the third floor sitting area between the two rooms did Draco turn to stare Harry Potter in the eye. "An answer now, if you please. Why exactly are you here, and what have you done to Bartholemy?"

To his surprise, Potter didn't look antagonised at all. "They called me in for security. Bartholemy was attacked on the street this morning. I'm replacing him."

Draco's face must have betrayed his shock, because Potter reached out a hand for a moment as if to steady him, then withdrew it.

"Will he be all right?" Draco somehow managed to get the words out. His throat felt tight, and it took all he had not to reach for one of the chairs.

"Yeah. The spell damage isn't severe. He's regrowing a few bones and muscle tissue, but he'll recover."

"What happened?"

Potter ran a hand through his hair, and for the first time, Draco noticed the small lines around his eyes and the dark circles beneath them. "It's not entirely clear."

Draco remembered that they had faced worse before, if on different sides. He knew that this was peacetime, and that a rogue band of thieves or ruffians was not as bad as a concerted network of Death Eaters. Nonetheless, he was afraid.

"Is it safe here?" he asked after a moment. He wasn't sure if he meant in Edinburgh, in this hotel, on the third floor. He gestured with his hand to encompass all of the possible meanings.

Potter shrugged. "Not entirely, no. The hotel's secure; the auction house's well guarded. But it's still not safe because we don't know what they're planning next."

When Draco had been given the task of sorting the Headmaster's correspondence prior to auction, he had been elated. There were many, many questions about the early 19th century Wizarding World and the renewal of magical runes he'd hoped to answer. Farquarson had been a seminal figure in British Wizarding circles, and many of his letters were to the leading European scientific figures of his day. In particular, the correspondence with R. had promised not only new information for Wizarding history, but perhaps even a clue to the identity of the mysterious R. himself.

Now it had been three weeks, and Draco had just begun to decipher some of the events of the letters. He'd manage to sort and catalog the major letters and describe many of the small pieces. Their order was beginning to come clear, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something every time he took a new parchment from the case and tried to describe it in his research log.

He'd known the task was potentially dangerous, but the assassination of the estate dealer who had brought the letters to the house made the danger apparent. That had been last week, and Bartholemy had brought him to this new hotel and taken two rooms on the third floor. They had set up the routing of a morning walk to the auction house, where Bartholemy would deposit Draco on the third floor. He would reappear when the morning guards went off shift, usually at three in the afternoon, and then walk Draco home at night. Draco had recently begun to dine with Bartholemy as well.

Now Bartholemy had been attacked, and Draco wasn't sure whether it was worth it any longer.

"Why you, Potter?" he asked again. "How can the Aurors spare you for this assignment?"

Potter shifted his stance, shoulders squared as if confronting an invisible enemy, chin jutting just a bit. "I'm not an Auror. I haven't been for some time. I'm a private security consultant."

And this was news to Draco. He was sure he would have noticed a headline about this in the Prophet if it had been common knowledge, although he had been known to ignore the 21st century when deeply engrossed in a translation project.

"I see." He didn't, not really, but he wasn't sure how Potter would take further questions.

After a few moments of silence, Potter gestured in the direction of Draco's room. "Would you like to get ready for dinner? I think we're still clear to go out."

Draco wanted a long hot bath and perhaps more. A good beach on an island in Greece sounded nice, but he wasn't going to get that on this job. Also, it would probably be better to eat first and relax later given the news of the day. 

He turned towards the door of his room. "I'll be ready in fifteen minutes."

It took Draco closer to thirty in actuality, but Potter didn't seem surprised. He was waiting on the armchair in the small sitting area, cloak across his lap and tousled dark hair somewhat smoothed. They agreed on a Wizarding gastropub close to the hotel, and walked in silence that was awkward, but not hostile.

Potter looked good in civilian clothing - his navy jumper was pleasingly tight across his broad shoulders, the white collar of his shirt was crisp, and the fit of his trousers told Draco that someone had given him a few pointers in fashion. And possibly the card of a decent tailor.

If Draco didn't exactly linger at a crossing to have Potter walk in front of him for a moment, he didn't exactly turn down the opportunity either. And yes, whatever else had happened in the years since Hogwarts, Potter did still have a passably excellent arse.

+++

If anything surprised Draco about the next days, it was the fact that Harry Potter was excellent company. Their first dinner had been awkward until Potter had spilt soup into his lap and Draco had made a pointed quip about everything wanting to get into his trousers that made Potter's frown melt into an amused smirk. After that, the tension between them had dissipated. The trousers had been rescued with a quick cleaning spell, and the evening had been genuinely enjoyable.

They kept the routine of afternoon watch and evening dinner together. Potter brought Draco to Jaffray and Culpeper in the morning, returned after midday to sit with him when the house was not as heavily guarded, and took him to the hotel at night. They stayed within close range of the hotel for dinner, and Draco retired early to read his notes.

At the weekend, the house was open for public auction for most of Saturday and Sunday. Draco stayed in his hotel room in the mornings and worked in the afternoons of each day, Potter at his side. The research was interesting and Draco found himself lost in some of the contents of the collection. Potter read volumes of Quidditch history while Draco sorted and described the documents. 

On Monday, Draco had a quick conference with the head of documents, Phineas Culpeper, brother to the current head Verrence Culpeper, OM. They chatted over tea and oatcakes about the documents' contents and Draco's progress. Mr. Culpeper was amicable and seemed completely unconcerned about the recent security issues. His firm was paying Potter's firm quite a bit of money for the job, but he assured Draco that it was worth every Sickle if the letters were catalogued and Draco kept safe.

On the following morning, Draco had a breakthrough. His research day had begun as it always did, with a box of letters, unsorted, and his handwritten record of the collection. He was going through a series of receipts, sorting by hand and size, when he found a paper folded into a small roll at the bottom of the box. It was an odd, featherweight paper - far thinner than the usual parchment and suggestive of the finest mulberry papers. It was smooth to the touch, with the ink visible from the wrong side. The roll was bowed, which led Draco to believe it had been fitted into a metal tube. 

There were reports that the Wizengamot had used ravens carrying small metal tubes during the Jacobite uprisings to send intelligence letters of great importance. The ravens were trained to protect the contents at any cost, and the tubes were self-destroying if not opened with the correct wand. None of the letters had survived, although two of the tubes with the protective runes could be seen in the Wizarding Wing of the British Museum. Could this possibly be a Wizengamot raven letter? 

Draco's hand shook with excitement. He went to unroll the little bundle of paper immediately, but something held him back, a prickling on his neck when he touched it, feeling what his mother called a shade cast across his tomb.

He laid the little roll in the hollow of the case of his quill trimming knife and had just turned back to his notebook when the door behind him opened. If Draco had shot out of his chair to greet the intruder, Mr. Culpeper was too polite to remark upon the unusual enthusiasm of his welcome.

"My apologies, Doctor Malfoy. I wanted to see the progress myself, and I had a moment to pop by as my afternoon appointment cancelled."

The hairs on the back of Draco's neck still stood straight up with the surprise, and he recovered his breath with some effort. "Not at all Mr. Culpeper. I'm sure you'll enjoy the lot today. What might you like to see?"

Draco led him through a sorted box of correspondence: the letters from Farquarson about his daughter's nuptials. Mr. Culpeper assess everything with an appraiser's eye, complimenting Draco on his sense of order and meticulous grouping by subject.

They were still going through the most recently sorted box when Potter walked in.

Although he covered it quickly, Draco saw out of the corner of his eye that Potter had had his wand out in a flash, then concealed it before Mr. Culpeper turned. Not for the first time, Draco was thankful of his guard's watchfulness, if entirely unnecessary in this instance.

"Mr. Potter, what an honor to make your acquaintance." Culpeper stood and greeted Potter with a low bow. 

Potter returned the bow gracefully as gracefully as possible in the small space of the reading room. "Mr. Culpeper, I assume. The pleasure is entirely mine."

Although Draco and Culpeper both encouraged him to join them at the reading table, Potter declined and sat in the side chair next to the wall in his usual guarding posture.

"These are unusually good notes," Mr. Culpeper said as he looked through Draco's longhand parchment. "How are you keeping your indices?"

Draco showed him the small notebook he kept and the way in which he cross-referenced the materials of the collection. Only when he was certain of the sequence did he transcribe information onto the finished parchment roll for the auction house records.

"Excellent work, of course." Culpeper's eyes travelled across the surface of notebook to the table to the open strongbox in the wall. "We're very lucky to have your expert eye - the documentation will make the collection so much more valuable at auction."

They sifted through an open box of materials, and Draco showed Culpeper the list of receipts and miscellaneous scraps.

Culpeper asked, "Have you found anything exceptionally unusual, then? Or does the collection seem to follow Farquarson's daily life and letters?"

Draco paused. It was an odd question, given the fascinating contents of the letters they'd been discussing. It was also strangely to the point, and he couldn't help but think of the small roll of paper tucked in the case lying before him. 

"I think all of the collection is unusual," he replied at length. "There is nothing ordinary about a figure such as Farquarson, and I'm sure Wizarding historians will write quite a few new chapters on the basis of these papers."

Culpeper nodded, then stood, brushing his black robes into order after sitting. "We'll talk about the division into lots at the end of the week when you've seen everything."

Draco was taken aback and tried desperately not to show it. "Lots, Mr. Culpeper? I'm afraid I don't follow."

But he did. He'd assumed that the cataloguing meant that the collection was to be sold as a whole, which made the papers much more historically valuable. However, an auction house might also choose to split up papers into lots to force bidding wars among interested buyers. Jaffray and Culpepper had to be certain of a number of high-profile buyers if they were willing to go this route, and Draco was concerned about the integrity of the group of letters.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Doctor Malfoy, but we've had a record number of inquiries on this sale." Mr. Culpeper watched his face closely.

Draco nodded politely, properly screening his thoughts this time. "It's no disappointment of course. I very much wish your house to recoup its investment. Sadly, the concerns of a scholar are often at odds with real market demands."

They both laughed, and then Mr. Culpeper made his goodbyes.

Potter remained standing after he was gone, waiting until the heavy tread faded on the upper stairs.

"I think we should leave early," he said quietly. "You look tired."

Draco looked up from the reading desk, his mouth shaping a retort. The look on Potter's face silenced any complaint.

"Very well." Draco surveyed at the desk surface before him and the papers still stacked in their box. He'd have to sort everything quickly to put away; he'd barely got to his proper tasks for the day. Tomorrow he will have to be particularly efficient.

Draco worked with the open box of papers and sorted everything into place for tomorrow. He and Potter touched their wands to the leather cases to seal each case in turn, then placed them in the strongbox.

It was only after Draco had signed the ledger and walked out onto the rough cobbles with Potter that he realised he hadn't returned the paper roll to its proper box. A chill of horror crept over him, but then he realised something even more interesting. The anti-theft charms hadn't been triggered at all.

+++

Lost in thought, Draco followed Potter's thick charcoal coat into the evening drizzle. He stopped under the awning of a news agent to cast an Impervius, and then realized he already had one active. The brief grin over Potter's shoulder told Draco who exactly had taken care of the rain repelling spell. 

_And wandless, too._ Draco thought. _Show off!_.

Despite himself, he was rather impressed.

When Draco had followed Potter through several streets of varying pavements and into the eclectic and glossy foyer of a townhouse, he finally twigged that something was different.

"What are we doing here?" He had to pitch his voice above the bustle of patrons and cocktail service at the bar. 

Potter took Draco's elbow, gently steering him to stairs beyond the piano. He leaned in, his lips almost brushing Draco's hair. "I took the liberty of booking another room and having our things moved. I'll explain more upstairs."

His smile was dazzling. Draco furrowed his brow slightly, as his mother told him never to do, then smiled in return. It wouldn't hurt to be pleasant, although he was quite puzzled. And he trusted Potter, he realized with a bit of an jolt. 

Their footfalls moved across the parquet of the floors in near harmony, adding to the dreamlike effect of the unfamiliar hotel. Potter led Draco to the end of a long corridor and then up a small stair. The view when the door was opened was nothing short of stunning.

The large windows of the corner suite looked out over the fairytale lights of a Georgian terraced street on one side and into the darkened, lush green of a wooded park on the other.

Draco looked about the discreetly modern furnishings and rather fine sitting area. 

After hanging up his cloak, he drifted to the shaded window and looked out. Small noises reached his ears of Potter settling things behind him, the soft laying down of a suitcase, the snap of a locking clasp. The evening dark was deepest blue, still and cold.

"I'm not sure I want to know why." Draco spoke into the window, seeing the reflection of a warm desk light glow behind him. "This is perhaps too lovely for questions."

"Would you like a drink?" Potter said, glass already in hand.

Draco turned in the direction of the sound, reluctant to soften the impression of dark and quiet. He took the whisky that Potter handed him. noting the lovely peatiness and perfect degree of ice and sat down in the toffee-hued leather chair.

A long, liquid sip later, Draco was fortified enough to speak. "Well then."

Potter nodded, as though the past half hour had been spent in conversation and note minimal sound cues. "Culpeper is crooked, as I'm sure you've realised."

Another sip and a nod served to acknowledge. Draco enjoyed the fact that it wasn't necessary to speak. He and Potter did know each other far too well. Oddly so, in fact.

"It's the third brother, however, who has been attacking the dealers. He was recently released from Azkaban and got wind of something of a treasure hunt in this lot of papers."

Draco focused on the concern in Potter's face. "Why?"

Potter set down his whisky. "There were rumors that the Bagshot family might be sitting on a goldmine. Bathilda's filing system was so eccentric, no one knew how to find it. When her cousin's children finally sold the estate, those rumors seem to have excited the interest certain criminal elements."

A chill ran through the room. Draco shifted, forming his next words with care. For a moment, he almost told Potter about the discovery of the day, but then his native caution pulled him back. Instead, he said, "I know I can't possibly ask this, but I've been through too much not to. How can be sure I can trust you?"

Far from offended, Potter actually appeared rather pleased. "Your mother knew you would ask that. Would you like to Firecall her? She's the one who asked me to take this assignment, right after Culpeper called the firm. She and your Aunt Andromeda were with me when the news came through that Bartholomey had been hurt."

And it was then Draco has the bizarre sense that he would go with Harry Potter anywhere, following him into whatever refuge he declared necessary. A luxury Wizarding townhouse hotel in the heart of Edinburgh was not much of a sacrifice, but Draco was prepared for more. Potter had come to protect him at the behest of his mother.

"Yes, I would like to speak to her, but only because I've been remiss in my filial duties lately." Draco turned a secretly grateful smirk on Potter. "And she'll be disappointed if I don't admit her cleverness to her face."

It was an easy thing to call his mother at her London home and chat about her social goings-on, his own well-being, and their joint need to dine together. It was a far harder thing to ignore his desire to flirt with Potter through a lovely local trout dinner, a fantastic treacle-y apple cake, and a bottle of rather decent red wine.

Then again, Draco never was good at denying himself, so he scarcely tried.

+++

The scant morning sunshine glowed behind the gauzy curtains as Draco finished washing his teeth, his dressing gown tied tightly around his nightrobe. He wondered why Potter had let him sleep in, although his mood was wonderfully light despite the apparent seriousness of the situation.

A rustling at the door sent Draco into the main room with his wand ready. Potter brushed through the door, a delicious scent emanating from the paper parcel under his arm.

Draco snatched a sheet of hotel notepaper from the pocket of his gown and brandished it. "Potter, I'm horrified. I literally cannot read what is on this paper."

Unperturbed, Potter set the mouthwatering parcel on the table, then lifted out a steaming box of Aberdonian rowies - round, croissant-like confections of flaky glory. "The note says "Good morning. I hope you slept well. I'm at the baker's."

"No it does not." Draco peered at the writing dramatically. "There's something about a troll and seven league boots here. I'm sure of it. Or maybe kestrels." Draco hovered eagerly over Potter's shoulder. Was that salmon on the china platter Potter just uncovered?

"Malfoy, I'm sorry, but you're wrong." Potter's smile was disarming. Draco let himself be waved into a chair opposite him at the breakfast table.

After waiting a moment for politeness, Draco reached for a rowie. "Potter, I'm sorry, but you're illiterate." 

To his great surprise, Potter just swallowed his mouthful of yeasty roll and then laughed. "That would be old news at the Ministry. Kingsley sent me for remedial handwriting training once. Tea?"

Draco allowed Potter to pour for him, approving of the lovely intense shade of the cup even after milk. "Why on earth, Potter? How can your writing be this bad?" 

He sipped at the nearly scalding hot mixture from the warmed china and was instantly in heaven. Must they need leave the hotel today?

It seemed as though Potter took a bit more care with his next answer, buttering another roll before he spoke. "My uncle and aunt told my teachers I was slow. I didn't have anyone pay attention to what I wrote until Hogwarts."

Draco stopped laughing and put down his tea. He pressed an involuntary hand to the offending letter as if to hide it from view. "Potter, I'm sorry. That's awful."

Potter looked at Draco through his fringe, then pushed the dark curls out of his face."Don't worry, Malfoy. It's been many years, and now it's just a laugh."

"Kingsley was a fool." Draco nodded knowingly, sipping at his tea.

It was Potter's turn for surprise. "How do you figure?"

Draco broke open another rowie, a small smile of contentment curving his lips as the smell of fat and yeast rose to his nose. "He should have used you for encoded Owl post."

Potter snorted, then wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. "We do have to decide what we're doing today."

Draco reached for his teacup, then hesitated. He had to tell Potter if he was going to tell anyone about the discovery yesterday. "Potter…"

"Yes?" Potter shifted in his chair as if about to stand up. 

"I found something really extraordinary yesterday. Something I think any dealer or museum would be eager to have. Something I know Culpeper wants." Draco picked at the crumbs on the table surface, absentmindedly running the clean edge of the knife over them and watching them pop in all directions.

Potter voice came slowly, but he didn't sound angry. "I was wondering if you were going to tell me."

Draco's eyebrows spiked. "I'm sorry? Did you actually…" He paused, hand in mid-air, uncertain whether to place his emphasis on being irate or relieved.

Potter seized the opportunity to speak while Draco was befuddled. "...see you tuck that small roll of paper into your stationery things? Yes. I did. Actually."

Draco took a deep breath. Just as he was beginning to relax, he started in his chair as another thought gripped him. "It was you." Potter grinned at the whispered accusation, which made Draco even more upset. "You blocked the anti-theft charms so I could take it out of the building."

"Is it really that surprising?" The corner of Potter's mouth was threatening to quirk upwards. 

Suppressing a curse, Draco put hand over his eyes, unable to bear the sight Potter for the moment. "No. It isn't. I should have know that the great Harry Potter could get past a historical spell of unknown power at an established Wizarding auction house wandless and with very little preparation. Of course. But what if it hadn't worked, Potter?"

Although he wasn't watching Potter, Draco could hear the smirk, the almost appalling confidence that Harry Potter had in his own abilities. "It's always worked before, Malfoy. Also, I do have to have special security access for this job. And I could have explained it if anything had gone wrong."

Draco lowered his hand, surprised to see Potter leaning across the table with an unbearably earnest look on his face. "But it was so dangerous!"

"I was fairly certain. I do know what I'm doing. And Culpeper is even more dangerous at the moment." 

After a few moments, Draco remembered that he wasn't supposed to be staring dreamily across the breakfast table at Harry Potter, that he was supposed to be an international Wizarding historical expert, and that he and Potter were in the midst of a ring of what had to be either antiquities thieves or mafiosi. It's just that Potter's shoulders were so broad, and he looked so good with his ruffled black hair and ridiculously strong jaw.

A cough, a quick cover, and Draco recovered his cool. "So I suppose the question is, what do we do now?"

"That depends on how valuable you think your find is."

"Immeasurably, really. If it's what I think it is." Draco walked to the window. The street below was soft grey and hushed, all trees bare in the still of late morning. The light trickled in through the thick cloud cover, barely warming the ivory baize curtains.

"And what do you think it is?" The hairs on Draco's neck stood up. Potter was behind him, having crossed the room on with near-silent strides.

Draco traced a figure on the pane, one spiral, then another. He was afraid to speak the truth out loud, but he knew he was right. "I think it's a raven scroll for matters of highest British Wizarding secrecy. But that type of letter hasn't been seen for hundreds of years and might not even have existed."

When he turned, Potter was right there, looming like shadow, close enough that Draco could almost touch. "Well, then. Perhaps we should figure out what it says."

Draco was just turning to his satchel when a loud boom rent the air, followed by a silvery flash, and then there was an odd crunch, followed by the silence and the darkness of nothingness.

+++

"Malfoy."

The light was harsh and Draco could barely open his eyelids. As he struggled to move his face enough toward the voice to see, his body protested from every joint and muscle.

"Malfoy." 

A hand stroked Draco's cheek. There was a shadow across the bright light. He recognized that voice. In fact, he had been listening to that voice for some time. He wanted to talk to the person who had that voice. Very much so, in fact.

" _Malfoy._ "

Draco opened his eyes finally. Harry Potter was leaning over him. His stupid black hair was everywhere and there was some sort of bandage on his forehead. As Draco's eyes focused, he could tell that Potter's face bore a look of extreme concern.

"Where am I, Potter?" His voice was rough and gravelly, syllables slurring together like water over stones.

"We're in St. Mungo's, Malfoy. You've been hurt."

Draco took some time to respond. His head hurt terribly now that he was conscious. "Really? So that's why I feel like I've been hit by a Bludger?

"It wasn't a Bludger, Malfoy. It was a stunning spell. And we're lucky that Culpeper wasn't keen on Unforgiveables or we might not be having this conversation at all."

Try as he might, Draco could not remember what had happened. There had been rolls, lovely rolls, and marmalade, and he'd been wearing a dressing gown. In Scotland, yes, that was it. And it had something to do with Batty Bagshot and her papers.

"Potter, why would an auctioneer try to kill us?"

Potter's face was drawn with concern. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me. It had to do with the raven scroll that you found."

A raven scroll. There hadn't been raven scrolls in the papers. Everyone knew that those didn't exist. And Farquarson had been several decades after the Jacobite uprisings, so why would a legendary document appear in his collection?

"That's preposterous, Potter. Are you sure you didn't sustain any head trauma?"

Potter cleared his throat. "I was next to the window, near the curtains. You were reaching for your work satchel when Culpepper and his brother burst into the room. I stepped out of the way, but they had a wand on you before I could counter."

Draco shook his head, then regretted the motion. The ache in his skull was fierce.

"And it was a raven scroll, Malfoy. You said so yourself."

There was a swish of robes and the light came back as Potter stepped away from the bed.

"Now, now," a stern voice said, a female Healer by the ring of authority. "That's enough, Mr. Potter. We must check Mr. Malfoy for damages now that he's able to speak."

Draco barely protested as cool hands came to his temples and a soft, whirring sound rose. The ache in his head eased, and then he was falling back into the welcoming arms of sleep.

+++

What with one thing and another, it was several days before Draco was cleared to leave St. Mungo's. He'd sustained a hairline fracture to his jaw that had the Healers very worried, and then he'd had a Skele-gro reaction that had taken a few days to clear because they'd forgotten to look in his health history - he'd always reacted badly to the damnable stuff, however necessary it was, and they never should have given him a double dose. And then it had been the weekend, and Draco had been miserably bored, and only after the head Healer had come back had they cleared him to leave.

When he was finally ready to be discharged, his mother appeared to collect him, house elves in tow. They whisked him back to the London house, and promptly set him in bed to recover. When he protested that he'd had enough of lying down at St. Mungo's, his mother threatened to sedate him and feed him nothing but consomme and blancmange for three weeks if he didn't rest voluntarily.

He hadn't seen Potter since that first day upon waking up in hospital. Draco was beginning to think he'd been captured or something dreadful. Then again, his memories were hazy of the man himself, glimpses of lovely shoulders and an arse to match, if he were honest, that's what he had paid the most attention to.

After another week of bed rest and the certainty that his life would be henceforth, as it had hitherto been, Potterless, the man himself appeared in Draco's mother's sitting room. Draco's mother was hovering somewhere in the hall just out of sight, having presumably allowed Potter into the house. Draco would have to have words with her later about not having given him more warning. He was hardly dressed to receive company, much less Potter.

"Do I know you?" Draco drawled over the rim of his china teacup after the house elf had left the room. The smell of Lapsang Souchong drifted to his nostrils.

Potter started on the velvet of the settee, then settled. "You're having me on," he said. "And you've every right to be angry. It took me a bit of time to track down what I was looking for."

Draco sipped the lovely, smoked warmth of his tea. "Mmmm. And what might that have been?"

The rattle of Potter's cup was loud in the quiet air. Potter leant to the side of the settee and withdrew a wooden case from his leather rucksack.

Without speaking, he handed it to Draco.

Inside the case there were two objects cushioned on the soft lining: a glass vial with a gleaming strand within that made Draco slightly queasy. It was labelled with a date and initials. DSM. His own initials, he realised, as he looked away to the next item.

The other object was a brass tube with a threaded top. Draco took the tube in hand first and opened it with a bit of pressure. Inside there was what looked to be a roll of paper.

He capped the tube and set it back into the lining, then closed the case.

"What do these have to do with me, Potter?"

Potter leaned forward and looked at Malfoy from beneath his black fringe. His green eyes bored into Draco. "You don't remember at all? Edinburgh? Culpeper Auctioneers?"

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was building behind his right eye, just a bit of pressure from too much focus. "Of course I remember, Potter. I was working on the Farquarson papers from the Bagshot collection and you were…"

He realized he didn't quite remember as well as he thought. "You were… I think you were working with Bartholomey, and somehow there were these magnificent rowies, and Mr. Culpeper was going to divide the collection into lots."

Potter sighed then, quite loudly, and the settee groaned under his weight settling back. "Would it surprise you to know that the memory in the vial is yours?"

Draco recoiled a bit. He'd suspected as much, but it was a bit odd to have the notion confirmed. Also he wasn't sure that he liked the idea of something that had been in his head lying out in the open air, even if it was surrounded by glass. To be fair, he was also concerned about Potter seeing too far into his head; recently, his thoughts had tended to tall, dark wizards and their ridiculous broad shoulders and complete lack of tact.

"Not really," Draco answered finally. "Should I…"

Potter leaned forward, "Here let me…"

And their hands met on the glass of the vial, withdrew, then met again.

Draco's hair was in his face and his breath was hot in his throat. Potter was so close that Draco could feel the warmth of his skin radiating, and the light touch of his fingertips against the back of Draco's hand.

"Would you…" He made the mistake of looking up, into Potter's eyes, and was lost there in the green. Draco licked his lips, then leaned closer to where Potter was, and closer still.

A light hand on his shoulder stopped him. "I think you should try the memory first. I want to make sure you know what happened."

The twist of regret bloomed in Draco's gut, and he tried to hide his disappointment. He brushed a hand against his hair, then took the vial from Potter's outstretched hand.

With his wand, it was easy to take the glowing thread of the memory and lay it against his temple.

The world swirled with color and he experienced a momentary swoop of vertigo. Then everything righted itself, and all of the vague shapes in the room were suddenly sharp.

"What the hell?" Draco didn't know what else to say. 

"Culpeper used a memory charm, but it ended up damaging your recall of Edinburgh. He obviously didn't care to be precise, since your knowledge made the scroll more valuable."

Draco now knew exactly what he'd found in Edinburgh, and was shocked that he'd been so complacent about pursuing it in the past weeks. He must have not been himself. The discovery of a raven scroll was an enormous coup, regardless of what it contained. 

And then Draco realized what was in the brass tube. The letter. His letter. 

He wanted to kiss Potter all over again. Maybe not just for the recovery of the document, but he wasn't going to question his urges right now. This was for science.

"Oh Potter!" He sounded maudlin, and he didn't care. This was his letter. "Whom did you have to kill to get this?"

Potter gave what might have been a satisfied chuckle. "Well, they're not dead, exactly, but I think the holding wizards are keeping a close watch on them before the trial. We've had the collection secured as well under Wizarding Heritage Laws."

Draco stroked the brass covetously. "It's worth it. I hope they end up in Azkaban for years for risking harm to this."

"It's probably the murders and grievous harm to people that will get them there." Potter was smiling. "Crimes against manuscripts haven't been codified in the Wizarding penal code."

"And that's what's wrong with the penal code." Draco said, already looking around his mother's sitting room for a proper light and a magnifying glass. He could use his wand and spells in a pinch, but they could distort the handwriting if cast wrong.

"Should I get out of your light?" Potter was standing up, brushing his stupidly large peasant's hands against his corduroy trousers and lifting his rucksack to his shoulder.

"No, wait." Draco motioned without taking his eyes off of the tube and the light he was trying to manipulate at the smooth leather surface of his mother's roll top desk. 

"Yes?" Potter stopped for a moment, on his way out of the room.

Draco knew he might be blushing and did not care. "I feel safer with you here."

Draco ignored the sharp intake of breath from the hallway where he knew his mother was listening in. Instead, he met Potter's eyes. The look on Potter's face was one of sheer astonishment.

"So come block the glare from the window on this side. It'll help me read." Draco leaned back over the manuscript. He was almost at the bottom of this mystery, he could feel it in his bones. With Potter's warm, strong presence next to him and the scroll on the writing surface, he reached for his magnifying glass.

+++

Daily Prophet

Edinburgh, 10 March

JACOBITE HOARD BROUGHT FROM SKYE TO EDINBURGH WIZARDING MUSEUM

Teams of trained experts under the supervision of Dr. Draco Malfoy of Wiltshire have been cataloguing the extensive hoard of gold, documents, precious jewels, and magical objects recently discovered on the Isle of Skye. The hoard appears to have been assembled by prominent sympathisers within the British Wizarding community to aid the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, during the Jacobite uprising of 1745. It was believed at the time that the Stuarts would be far more tolerant of the Magical community than Hanoverians, under whose rule numerous Magical Secrecy Acts were promulgated. 

Dr. Malfoy, manuscript scholar and recently appointed Senior Lecturer of British Wizarding History in the Wizarding College, London, found references to the hoard while examining papers of the 19th century Hogwarts headmaster, Fraxinus Farquarson, from the collection of the late Bathilda Bagshot. Bagshot herself is now known to have been a direct descendant of Charles Stuart through his secret granddaughter, Aglae de Rohan-Guéméné. According to Dr. Malfoy, the Countess de Rohan-Guéméné can be safely identified with the "R." of 19th European Wizarding circles.

The key to finding the hoard seems to have been an encoded Latin missive of the highest secrecy, a raven scroll so-called after the birds used by the Wizengamot to bear the elaborately enciphered letters. Although the example has not yet been put on display for the public, the Keeper of Modern Manuscripts in the Wizarding Museum, Dr. Betlis Valois-Fritton, has called it "an unparalled find." Dr. Malfoy's discovery is believed to be the only surviving example of a raven scroll. Dr. Malfoy himself sustained serious injury during his pursuit of the hoard and is still recuperating. Reportedly, his injuries might have been much worse if he had not been protected by his then-guard and current companion, Harry Potter --

Draco stopped reading as a warm hand emerged from the bedclothes to tug at the shoulder of his dressing gown.

"They've messed up all of the details as per usual," he muttered in the direction of the tufts of black hair sticking up from the edge of the bedclothes.

A muffled voice returned. "Come back to bed, Draco. It's only half-six. Too damned early to be awake."

"And of course they couldn't write about the discovery without placing emphasis on our relationship." Draco knew he sounded waspish, but he didn't care. This was an enormous discovery, and it wasn't just because he was sleeping with Harry Potter that it was news, although that had been a pleasant unexpected consequence of the entire affair.

"Can I help it if I'm front page news?" Harry's tone was carefully self-mocking, dissipating any lingering resentment on Draco's part.

"Mmmm. I think in this case, we're front page news. Perhaps we should give them more of a show next time." Draco let himself be dragged back into the cradle of Harry's arms. 

The paper fell to the floor and with it, any concern for the outside world. Well. At least for the next hour.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/90193.html).


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